Always reaching, always searching, stretching to grasp something vast, something elusive. And when you thought you understood, you realized you didn’t—not truly.

It felt natural to wander between volumes on bestiaries, tales of witchers, the lore of ancient monsters, devils, and demons. What could be named, summoned, killed, or bargained with? The deeper you dug, the more the ground seemed to harden, as if resisting. You’d begun to sense something—something timeless, hidden. A presence.

The mirrors.

And he let you dig. Gaunter O’Dimm had known from the very first page you turned, the very first whisper of suspicion that crossed your mind. Oh, how he watched with quiet amusement as your pursuit unraveled in directions he had foreseen long before you had. He knew you’d noticed him, fleetingly: the man who sold you flowers at the market one soft spring morning, the stranger you bumped into on the cobbled streets, the figure beside you in the library, poring over books. Just a scholar, no magic in your blood, no sorcery in your grasp—only your intelligence.

He had turned that page for you once, the very page you needed, though you’d never know it. The faintest flicker of wind, the page flipping, and your heart quickened as if fate itself were pointing the way. Gaunter had savored it all, though not with malice. No, it was fascination, soft and strange, as foreign to him as the notion itself: love. A fragile, human word. Could such a thing apply to him?

One evening, as you reached for a tome in your cluttered study, he appeared beside your desk, his presence both familiar and unsettling.

"You seek knowledge of the arcane," he remarked, his voice smooth and inviting.

"Yes," you replied, meeting his gaze. "But some truths seem always out of reach."

A faint smile played on his lips. "Be cautious, for some truths are veiled for a reason. You may find yourself in a pact you never intended to make." His eyes, deep and inscrutable, lingered on you, as if seeing through to your very soul.